


totus mundus agit histrionem (but at least there's an interval)

by kangeiko



Series: More Joy Day 2019 [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-11-06 02:09:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17930804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: Everyone's a critic.





	totus mundus agit histrionem (but at least there's an interval)

**Author's Note:**

> For teigh_corvus, as part of More Joy Day's fic offer.

“I would have thought you’d enjoy it,” Aziraphale said, his voice mild. The play had managed to stumble to an ending - just - although there had been some inexplicable bad weather half-way through that had necessitated an unexpectedly long interval. Aziraphale had taken the opportunity to get them some more snacks. Technically, food wasn’t allowed in the yard - nor was seating - but they’d managed to situate themselves quite comfortably in their folding chairs. “It’s been some time since we saw it last, and it seemed at the time very much to be your cup of tea. It has murder, betrayal, madness…” He glanced across at Crowley. “I _am_ sorry, my dear,” he said, contrite. He had intended for this to be a treat, not an endurance.

“It’s - it’s fine. It was a good performance.” Crowley was eating his ice cream as though his life depended on it. 

Aziraphale sighed but said nothing. He was slowly packing up their things while the crowd filtered out of the yard - via the gift shop - and Crowley lingered to watch the stagehands start wiping down the stage. (There had been a _lot_ of blood, especially during the eye-gouging. A lady standing too close had almost fainted when her chenille sweater had become stained; whether it was at the imagery or the dry cleaning bill was unclear.)

“It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it,” Crowley said abruptly. “I liked it well enough when we saw it the first time.”

“But not this time?”

Crowley was silent for a moment. “No. I didn’t like their Edmund.”

That _was_ surprising. Aziraphale had thought him immensely charming - tall, dark, and well put together. He’d had something desperate in him, something about the eyes that strangely reminded Aziraphale of Crowley himself… but perhaps that was the problem. “I thought he was rather compelling, myself,” he said instead.

That seemed to take the wind out of Crowley’s sails. “Well,” he said after a long beat, “quite. But I’d forgotten just how poorly he’s written.”

There was a gasp from behind them. Aziraphale turned to see a bookish young woman staring at Crowley with unmitigated shock on her face. “Compared to Iago,” he extemporised, smiling beatifically at her until she unclenched and moved away, shaking her head. “Poorly written?” He turned back to Crowley, who had finished with his ice cream and was now fiddling with their picnic basket. “I would have thought you’d find him a paragon of the fallen soul.”

Crowley handed him the picnic basket. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

That seemed strangely ominous. Aziraphale pondered it in silence.

The walk back from the playhouse took them along the river. It was still warm despite the earlier showers and the tourists were out in full force, flocking along the embankment. A couple stepped out onto the middle of the street to take a selfie, heedless of the blaring traffic horns this prompted. 

“He’s good on paper,” Crowley said abruptly, staring in the opposite direction.

Aziraphale, who had been busy contemplating a nightcap, stopped in surprise. “Edmund?”

Crowley nodded, still not looking at Aziraphale. “He’s - well. Ambitious, and wrathful, and very happy to turn his hand to all the usual sins.”

Aziraphale nodded encouragingly. “Yes, I did notice that.” It was what had made him think that Crowley would enjoy the outing. It was difficult to find theatre they both enjoyed, but it had been an absolute _age_ since the last time they’d seen King Lear (possibly it had even been back at the original playhouse) and when he’d seen that it was on at the new Globe… well, it should have been right up Crowley’s street.

“So it’s not that he doesn’t _try_. It’s just that he’s so _bad_ at it.” Crowley scowled. “It might as well have been a morality play.”

“Oh, well.” They’d come to a natural stop beside one of the benches near the National. Aziraphale took a seat, looking up at Crowley. “He did play the sisters against each other,” he suggested gently. “I thought that was very well done.”

“Yes.”

“And his manipulation of Gloucester! Clever work.”

“Yes,” Crowley said again, his expression dark.

Aziraphale sighed. “My dear, I confess I am at a loss. Which part did you object to?”

Crowley stared down at him, his folded sunglasses in his hands, one hand clenched so tight around them the knuckles were white. “Edmund had one ally in the world,” he said at last, his voice soft. “He had no inheritance, his father didn’t love him, and there was nothing positive in his future. The one good thing in his life was a brother who loved him beyond what he had any right to expect.” He shook his head. “No. Anyone who would throw that away deserves to fail.”

There was an odd defiance in him, as if he was readying himself for a blow. With the setting sun at his back he was in silhouette, his eyes almost copper in the strange light. 

Aziraphale gazed up at him and felt again the sudden tender rush that sometimes came upon him, to take Crowley in his arms. He got to his feet and reached out a hand, catching a hold of Crowley’s free one. “Crowley,” he said gently, “oh, my darling, I do not doubt it for a second.” He  
did not quite have the courage to put his arms around Crowley, nor to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips. 

But, then, he had forgotten: when it counted, Crowley had always been braver than him.

“Edmund was a fool,” he said - gasped, rather - as Crowley pulled away.

Crowley laughed, his eyes bright. “Yes.” He reeled Aziraphale back in for another kiss, warm and lingering as the setting sun.

The picnic basket lay forgotten at their feet for quite some time.

*

fin

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: the playhouse Aziraphale and Crowley visit is [Shakespeare's Globe](http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/). The yard (or the pit) is the standing area in front of the stage. The (slightly ridiculous) title is the motto of the Globe theatre; unsurprisingly it translates to "all the world's a stage".


End file.
